


The Teeth of the Times

by xahra99



Series: Rebels And Boys [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Bo Gullet, Dubious Morality, Gen, Missing Scene, Nightmare Fuel, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Saw Gerrera's Giant Psychic Space Octopus, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:03:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: Bodhi hopes that Galen Erso didn't know that this would happen. Missing scene. Complete.





	

As they push him down the stairs, Bodhi Rook hopes that Galen Erso didn’t know that this would happen.

_He’s a good man_ , Erso said of Saw Gerrera. _He raised my daughter._

Bodhi wonders what went wrong. He can see from Gerrera’s tortouous breathing, his crude prosthetic limbs, his scars, the oxygen tank slung over his back, that he’s been fighting a long time. Perhaps he was a good man once, until the Empire pared that part of him away, stripping his humanity from him with his limbs. Once. In Bodhi’s admittedly biased opinion, those days are far behind. If he came to throw himself on Saw Gerrera’s mercy, then he’s twenty years too late.

Bodhi feels briefly sorry for Galen Erso’s daughter. Then somebody shoves him hard between the shoulder-blades. Bodhi stumbles, cracks his head on the wall, and returns to pitying himself.  

Galen Erso’s name isn’t having the effect that Erso expected it would. Perhaps Gerrera’s brain is as damaged as his body. Perhaps he’s forgotten everything. Or perhaps he remembers, and he just doesn’t care.

Bodhi swallows. His mouth is dry, and he doesn’t dare to ask for water. He sees nothing through the tight weave of the sack over his head. Unseen hands guide him down a flight of narrow steps. Someone snickers. The air is cold and clammy. It smells of stone dust and something musky he doesn’t recognise. He guesses that they’re still underground. 

When Bodhi was a boy he used to catch womp rats in the tunnels under Jedha City and sell them for a few credits. The trapped rats scurried round their cages, positive they could escape if they just tried hard enough. Now Bodhi feels the same way. As if he could convince Saw Gerrera to listen, if he could only find the right words. He knows it’s probably pointless. But still he tries.

“Galen! Galen Erso sent me! He told me to find you!”

But the more he speaks, the more Gerrera shuts down. Bodhi tries his best to find common ground, but he has a nasty feeling that the only thing Saw Gerrera sees when he looks at him is a target planted firmly on his forehead.

He stumbles as the floor levels out again. The rebels’ footsteps echo, as if the tunnel has opened out. Inside the bag the air is warm and moist but he feels a cold breeze on his wrists. The strange smell becomes stronger. The sack clings to Bodhi’s face. He tries to slow his breathing. It doesn’t really work.

Someone kicks at his feet. Hands press down on his shoulders. “Sit down.”

Bodhi sits. It isn’t like he has much choice. Cold metal touches his wrists. The ropes binding his hands tighten for a second before they fall free. Bodhi flexes his fingers. Pins and needles tingle in his hands. Then someone he can’t see grabs his wrists and binds them to the chair’s arms. The bag over his head muffles Bodhi’s automatic protest. The ropes are tight enough to be uncomfortable; tight enough to ensure he can’t break free.

He hears something slither in the darkness. Fear seizes his heart.

He wasn’t sure to expect when he defected from the empire, but it wasn’t this. The Empire would have shot him. Who knows what Gerrera is about to do?

Through the bag, Bodhi hears footsteps clank closer. Someone behind him yanks off the bag covering his head. He looks up into Saw Gerrera’s face.

Muscles spasm in Saw Gerrera’s cheek as he gazes down at Bodhi. His left eye droops. It’s not a pretty sight. Then Gerrera steps back and presses a button. A metal screen slides down between them, and Bodhi sees what’s lurking in the darkness. It’s worse than Gerrera ever was.

Gerrera smiles. “Bo Gullet,” he says.

Bodhi has never seen anything like it. The creature is half the size of his U-wing. Its ridged skin is a sickly dark pink. Muscular tentacles writhe beneath its bulbous head. It gazes at Bodhi through filmy eyes and slithers towards him.

Bodhi strains at the ropes. They creak but hold tight. He pulls harder and feels the fibres bite into his skin. He waits for the creature to rise and display murderous fangs, a gaping maw. It just sits there. Bodhi can’t tell if it’s a smart animal, or a strange looking person. Whatever it is, it doesn’t look friendly.

So far, Saw Gerrera has been very careful to show Bodhi nothing that he didn’t need to see. He’s already given up all his information. So Saw must think Bodhi needs to see this. Or-a nasty thought-that _it_ needs to see _him_.

Gerrera smiles. “Can feel your thoughts,” he says. “No lie!” His eyes roll. He looks as crazy as his creature. Bodhi wonders if the metal implants have poisoned his brain. Then he wonders if the creature can hear him. He slides down in his chair, struggling desperately as the monster slides forward, but the ropes hold him upright.

“What have you really brought me, cargo pilot?”  Gerrera asks.

Bodhi stares at Saw’s creature. It stares back. Malevolent intelligence glitters in its eyes. The creature reaches him. A questing tentacle curls around his ankle. Bodhi kicks at it, but the creature is not deterred. Tentacles wrap around his legs, his arms, his throat. He expects them to be slimy but they’re cool and dry. The tip of one tentacle slides up into his hair. He winces. 

“Bo Gullet will know the truth.” Gerrera tells him.  He takes a deep breath. “The unfortunate side effect is that one tends to lose one’s mind.”

Bodhi’s mind is pretty much the only thing that he has left. Whatever this thing does to him, he’s got nothing more to say. He gasps “No!” The creature’s tentacles slide around his throat and tilt his head back. Bodhi closes his eyes.

Gerrera snickers. “Say something.”

“Don’t do this!” 

“Something else.” Gerrera takes a blaster pistol from his belt. “What colour is my robe?”

Bodhi stares. Gerrera holds up the gun, removes the proton pack, holds it up so that Bodhi can see it’s fully charged and shoves it back. “What colour is my robe?” he asks again.

Gerrera’s tattered robe is faded and so stained that it’s hard to tell. “Brown?” Bodhi guesses.

The gathered rebels snicker. Gerrera nods. He reaches up and pulls his oxygen mask across his mouth with his free hand. The muzzle of the gun bobs. He takes a few deep breaths, and pushes the mask down. “Say it’s white.”

Bodhi glances nervously at Bo Gullet. The creature rumbles. It doesn’t seem inclined to move. 

Saw Gerrera aims his gun at Bodhi’s head. “White,” he orders. “This way, we can all find out the truth.”

“Okay, okay.” Bodhi says hastily. The tip of a tentacle slides beneath his jaw. “Your robe-it’s uh, white.”

He gets about half way through the sentence before something slithers in his mind. The creature peers at him through rheumy, lidless eyes. _Lying,_ it says. Pain spikes through Bodhi’s temples. His body shakes. He can’t tell if the sudden constriction in his chest is the creature tightening its grip or his heart giving up.

He surfaces, and sees Gerrera staring at him with cold eyes. “I-I don’t deserve this,” he gasps.

Gerrera’s eyes narrow. He regards Bodhi with contempt. “Your Empire has murdered more of my friends than I can count. You’ll find that I have little sympathy.”

“I defected,” Bodhi protests. “I came here myself! How-how many pilots have you killed?”

“Enough,” Gerrera growls. He pauses and takes another gulp of oxygen. “I could cut your fingers off,” he offers. “Is that what you’d prefer?”

Bodhi’s not honestly sure. Cutting would hurt, but there is something repugnant about the touch of Gerrerra’s pet creature. At least knives would be clean. “You can’t do this!”

_Lie,_ the creature tells him. Bright agony knifes through Bodhi’s head. The pain pins him to the chair. His back arches and his hands tense on the arms of the chair, scrabbling at the wood. He grits his teeth.

“This way is better,” Gerrera tells him, once it’s over.

“For you,” Bodhi mumbles.

“For us both. Now speak,” Gerrera orders. “Let’s start at the beginning.” He pulls up a chair and leans across it, arms folded on the back. “Can the Empire track you?”

“No,” Bodhi says reflexively. He says it because he thinks it’s what Gerrera wants to hear, but the creature has other ideas. Bodhi’s brain lights up in a flash of agony. This time is far worse than the last. His whole body stiffens in the chair. When he comes back to himself, he tastes coppery blood. 

“Again,” Gerrera orders.

“I don’t think so,” Bodhi babbles. He has no time to consider his words. He flinches, anticipating pain. “I rerouted the emergency beacon. Disabled the comms. They’ll think that I’m dead. I told you, we’re on the same side.”

Gerrera regards him coldly. “I doubt that,” he says.

“We don’t have time for this,” Bodhi protests. He tries to get as many words out as he can before the beast finds something in his speech it considers an untruth and shocks him silent. “Galen Erso said he trusted you. He says we must act before the Death Star comes online! Open- “He looks down, briefly distracted by one of the creature’s tentacles sliding between the strap of his goggles and his head. “Whoa. Hey, leave those alone.” He glares at Gerrera. “Open the message if you don’t believe me. I risked everything to come here. To you.”

“It’s a trap,” Gerrera says. There is a warning in his voice. “What do you know about the Death Star?”

“That’s all Galen told me. I’m just the messenger.” He sees Gerrera crook one finger, feels the creature slithering around inside his brain, its tentacles sliding through his memories. He jerks back against the chair. The skin beneath his nose tickles with wetness. Bodhi looks down and tastes blood.

Bo Gullet reaches out with its tentacles. It buries hooks within Bodhi’s soul and squeezes.

Bodhi comes apart.

He remembers very little of what follows. The pain is just the start. Saw Gerrera was right about one thing at least. Bo Gullet-whatever-whoever -it is-feeds on falsehood. Finding none, it takes memories, leaving the dross of whatever sustained it before. Colours flicker at the edges of Bodhi’s vision. Memories, sights, and sounds assail him like an avalanche, sliding into his mouth and eyes like sand. He wrenches his head back, choking as he sees ships exploding, brought down by a lucky blaster shot, their pilots immolated in seconds, blood boiling and bones turned to white ash. He watches as a boy’s head explodes into pieces in the market, a hole bored through the forehead by a stormtrooper’s blaster. He weeps for his mother’s death, rails at the mindless bureaucracy of the Empire, scrapes the skin from his wrists as he struggles. Throughout it all, he hears Gerrera’s voice.

He doesn’t deserve this. But does anyone? 

He falls to pieces.  Gerrera’s voice anchors him, drags him back. Gerrera told him that the creature knows the truth. It does more than that. It feeds, distracting him with pain before it drives its hooks deep into his mind. It leaves him shaking, broken. The only consolation Bodhi has left to cling to is that he knows he’s telling the truth.

So the creature doesn’t break him down entirely.

Bodhi senses disappointment. The creature-Bo Gullet, if that is its name- is greedy for more. It wants to hurt him. It needs to hurt him. It has had others before him. Here and there, Bodhi recalls flickers of ephemeral thought he does not recognise. The scent of flowers at dawn on a jungle planet he’s never visited. The outline of a small girl’s cheek, framed by braided blond hair. The plot of a particularly melodramatic holo-play.

Mixed among the memories are scraps he recognizes as his own. He remembers the sight of stars through a porthole, the giddy lurch of a star-ship jumping into hyperspace, the feel of familiar controls that fit precisely to his hands. Tears on his face. A whole tangle of memories that make up Bodhi Rook.    

He doesn’t lose his mind. He loses himself.

It’s terrifying.  Piece by piece, the monster siphons him away. Bodhi fights it the only way he knows how.

He tells the truth.

He tells Gerrera everything. Galen Erso, their meeting, the Death Star, the kyber crystals. He reels off every manifest, every list of cargo, every crate of blaster bolts. He lists pre-flight checks, hyperspace routes, and landing protocols. He tells Gerrera every item on the menu at the Jedha city canteen. He talks until his jaw aches. He speaks until even Saw Gerrera’s fervent questions slow.

“He’s telling the truth.” Gerrera sounds disappointed.

The small part of Bodhi’s brain that is still capable of conscious thought knows why. Gerrera might be a few shades of grey short of the Empire, but even he has traces of ethics remaining. If he was lying, they’d just shoot him. Instead, they’re forced to store him somewhere. Part of him shivers and gibbers. The rest is somewhere else, soaring through a blue sky, and doesn’t even process the information.

“Should we open the message?”

“Not yet,” Gerrera says, “Later.”

Bodhi fades out again. When he comes to, people are wrenching at the ropes around his wrists. It hurts, but the pain is somewhere else, far away, and he doesn’t mind so much. They drag the chair out from beneath him. His knees buckle. The creature slithers backwards, releasing him, and Bodhi falls to the floor. The sandy rock is gritty beneath his palms. He stares at it. Grains loom large as planets.

He hears someone sigh. “Get him up.”

They lift him. Faces swim across his vision. Hair falls across his face. He reaches up to check his goggles, and someone slaps his hand away. He stands unsteadily. There is a pressing sense that he has lost something, only he can’t work out what it is. His vision narrows to a pinpoint. Everything is detached, as if it’s happening a very long way away.

Someone slaps his face. It stings. “Walk.”

He tries. Movement is more difficult than he remembers. Eventually they must get impatient with him because strong arms lock beneath his shoulders and half-lift, half-drag him to the bottom of the steps. The flight of stairs jogs something in Bodhi’s mind. He stares at the worn risers, but the sight is unfamiliar.

Everything aches.

They force him up the steps none too gently. He is half way up when he remembers. He told the truth. He tried to help. He has to find the Rebels, has to help before it’s too late. The thought halts him. He grasps at it, a slippery sand-fish that darts across his vision, fast as a starship jumping into hyperspace. Someone curses. Bodhi falls to the ground and lands on his knees.  “Galen Erso sent me,” he says, catching somebody’s sleeve. Rotten fabric tears beneath his shaking fingers. There’s smooth metal beneath it. “I left,” he tells them. “I’m the messenger.”

“We know,” says a deep voice, and somebody else says. “Shut up.”

The sleeve slips from Bodhi’s hands. He weeps, and forgets why.

Somebody laughs. “I always said you must be mad to join the Empire. I guess this proves it.”

They take him away, and leave him alone. He senses the creature in its lair far below, digesting the scanty meal he has provided.  From time to time he catches flashes of the other beings Bo Gullet consumed. They whisper to him through the walls.

Bodhi tries not to listen. After a while he hears somebody repeating the same words patiently. He realizes that they’re waiting for a response.

“Are you the pilot? The shuttle pilot?”

“I am?” Bodhi repeats, dazed. He remembers being a pilot, thought right now his memories seem as hazy and far away as the clouds high above his cell. Remembers flying.

“What’s wrong with him?” asks a curious voice.

The first voice silences the interruption before turning back to Bodhi. “Galen Erso?” he asks. “You know that name?”

The name echoes through Bodhi’s mind and jerks his brain from autopilot. He reaches up and touches the smooth surface of the goggles strapped to his forehead. “I brought the message,” he says with growing excitement. “I’m the pilot.” It feels good to name himself, so he repeats it. “I am the pilot. I’m the pilot.”

“Good.” someone tells him. “Now where is Galen Erso?”

“On Eadu,” Bodhi tells him obligingly. Lying is unthinkable. He looks around at his surroundings for the first time and sees a dark-eyed man in Rebel clothes staring down at him through a hole in the cell next door.

“We’re going to get out of here,” he says to Bodhi.

Bodhi Rook has never heard anything so good in all his life.

 

***

**Author's Note:**

> She took a walk  
> Past rebels and boys who talk  
> Raised up her hand and fought  
> To bridge a divide  
> And the screen ghosts moaned  
> Flickered in every home.  
> The teeth of the times grew long  
> And glistened with pride  
> The War by Thea Gilmore.  
> Author’s Note: You finished! Congratulations! Thanks for reading! A brief note: I haven't read any of the novels (so this scene may be included). Private canon: Bodhi Rook wasn't completely brain-scrambled because he didn't even try to lie to Saw Gerrera. Of course, the real story is why the hell Saw Gerrera has a psychic space octopus in his basement anyway. It seems unlikely that a giant space squid like Bo Gullet would originate from a dry planet like Jedha. If it didn’t, then Saw Gerrera must have expended a fair amount of time and effort to transport it there. What does he use it for when he’s not torturing hapless Imperial pilots? How does it find enough to eat down there. Is is a 'it' or a 'he'? Who knows?*  
> *Possibly something sexual.


End file.
